


Roses and Thorns

by throughtheparadox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:58:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughtheparadox/pseuds/throughtheparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds Valentines Day a mere commercialisation of romance--that is until he spent the occasion in Irene Adler's presence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses and Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last Valentines Day. Enjoy!

"What do you mean you’re leaving? Going where?" Sherlock grunted, his knuckles white as he held his phone to his ear.

"It’s Valentines Day. I—uh— I’m taking Mary out on a special date." John replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes, huffing. "Valentines… Another social construct made to commercialise romance. You’re together everyday, you see each other everyday, how is this day any different?" Sherlock complained. He heard John give a fake laugh and snide remark about Sherlock not understanding.

"Does this mean you have no plans with… your new flatmate?" John asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Of course John would bring this up, Sherlock thought. The doctor and his wife doesn’t know when to stop when in comes to asking him about his… his…

No. Saying ‘his’ indicates ownership. He doesn’t own her. He doesn’t own The Woman.

It’s been a couple of months already since she appeared between the doors of 221B, asking if she could rent John’s old bedroom. She was on the run, Sherlock figured, but that was the end of his deduction. He rarely saw her, barely going out of the room only to prepare her own tea and food. He figured she doesn’t eat much as well, as he noticed amount of food she was preparing—or the lack thereof.

They never shared a conversation, even pleasantries. And as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, he found it disturbing.

Sherlock found himself listening to an empty line. John must’ve put down the phone when he was lost in thought. He sighed. This silence with Irene Adler makes him crave for something he couldn’t understand.

Exasperated, Sherlock took out an airsoft gun from his drawer (John and Mary decided to give him one instead of a real gun), aiming it towards the drawn face on the wall. He shot it once, then twice, then thrice, agitation running in his veins.

It didn’t help. At all.

His head was throbbing, a heavy feeling pressing on his chest. He slumped down his chair, eyes closed, letting the airsoft gun fall on the floor with a loud thud.

"What’s going on? Is everything—" He heard someone say, Irene Adler standing by the doorway of his flat, an alarmed look reflected in her eyes. He gave her a quick scan, the deranged look on her face, the frown on her lips, the slight trembling of her hands indicated fear… panic. Her grey eyes saw the gun on the floor and her gaze suddenly turned cold as she realised what just happened. She huffed, evidently annoyed, turning back to the direction of her room.

"Ms. Adler!" Sherlock called, almost regretting as he did so. Why did he call her? What was he going to say?

She turned, her cold eyes meeting his. “Yes?”

Sherlock stood, trying to steady himself. The air suddenly felt thicker and once again, he found himself at a loss for words in front of Irene Adler.

"Well?" Irene asked, her tone clipped, eyebrow raised in annoyance. Sherlock tried to read her, tried to understand why she was acting so… indifferent. Noticing he was still staring, Irene turned and left without another word.

Sherlock was frozen in his place, gritting his teeth.

"You’re worried about her." John’s voice said, echoing in his mind palace.

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed.

"Puppy love… How predictable." Mycroft’s voice taunted and Sherlock shook his head in anger.

He trudged his flat, grabbing his coat and scarf as he headed out the door. The weather was breezy as always, the streets echoed of serene tunes coming from stores and restaurants filled with couples staring at one another— Sherlock felt bile rising up his throat.

He wanted to clear his mind, which has been often lingering on the idea of him and Irene Adler sharing the same flat. His thoughts fleeted to the cold look she had given him, a stinging look that was undeniably toxic.

Despite his attempts, everywhere he looked was filled with the shade of her lips, paper hearts and roses decorating every stall in light of the occasion. Sherlock paused, his eyes fixed on a single rose on display. It was in full bloom, reddest among all the others, but upon a closer look, its thorns were still intact, carefully hidden behind lines of leaves. A small smile crept upon his face, one he brushed off immediately once noticed. Shaking his head, he decided to walk past the florist’s shop, only to stop on his heel when he heard someone showing interest in the flower.

Without a second thought, Sherlock turned back, taking out a couple of quid from his pocket, handing it to the florist. “I’ll take that. No need to take out the thorns or the roots. Much less labor for you so might as well hand it to me than him.” he said. The florist and the other man only nodded, no protest heard due to surprise. Taking the rose, Sherlock winced as he pricked himself despite the paper it was wrapped in.

He questioned himself, wondering why he did what he did.

"Oh but you already know, brother dear… You act like you don’t but you know why…" he heard Mycroft say inside his head. "It reminded you of her… That poison and pain underneath all that beauty. The kind of experience that would make you bleed and satisfied at the same time, danger and brilliance… You were always an addict, brother mine, but this time, you chose something worst than nicotine."

"Stop it, Mycroft." He spat silently.

"Why don’t you give it a chance, Sherlock?" Mary’s voice quipped and he found himself confused. No. No. No. What was he doing?

"If you didn’t care for her then why did you save her in the first place?" Mind-palace John added.

"Not helping." Sherlock hissed under his breath. He looked at the rose in his hand once more and remembered the one Irene left in the hospital for him, the one that Magnussen pointed out. On his way to escape that day, the day he decided to confront Mary of her shooting him, he took the rose and the card with him before leaving through the window. Keeping it was almost involuntary, the petals of the rose and the Casmir scented card still hidden in his drawer along with the Vertu. Irene’s distance, literally and figuratively, added fuel to the fire of his interest to the point of desperation.

He wondered whether Magnussen knew this before, Irene Adler being one of his pressure points, a regard whether what that meant to him was still unclear. Still, with the intention of taking her off his mind, he was doing poorly.

In Karachi, it was undeniable that they had shared a moment, something that Sherlock deeply tried to bury in the depths of his mind, that tender look she had given him before they…

He sighed. It was a memory that haunted him, a memory that kept on popping up in his head like the day he was trying to figure out who the Mayfly Man was at John and Mary’s wedding. That look, that touch… It was too much.

Why is she angry, then? He couldn’t understand. He wanted to know but he was skeptical if she would allow it.

Sherlock resigned, taken by surprise to see he found his way back home. He considered the consequences of what was about to do, trying to weigh down the possibilities that will occur. This was the problem when it comes to Irene Adler—the predictability was down to its least level, the mystery of her an unending puzzle.

***

Irene was looking out the window, her fingers still trembling at the recollection of the gunshots she heard earlier. She hated it, this fear, but who wouldn’t fear Jim Moriarty. She had been on the run, despite the false identity she had maintained in America, for every move she made always somehow ending as a near-death experience. Moriarty had made it clear that he will find her, then a certain Charles Augustus Magnussen sent her a notice of some sorts, clearly blackmail. London was the place she knew more than anywhere else and rather than to navigate the world blindly, she decided to come back.

And even if she didn’t want to, she found herself in Baker Street.

It wasn’t because of Sherlock, though. It was just playing smart. If any of her ‘enemies’ found out she would be back in London, they would assume—especially Moriarty— that the only place she would go to would be 221B. But they know she’s clever and would never do as expected so they would look someplace else.

And by doing the exact opposite of that, Irene held her belief that this reverse-reverse-psychology she was betting on would work—for now. She doesn’t need protection. She could handle herself.

Lastly, she doesn’t want to drag Sherlock into this so the less he knows, the better.

Her thoughts were disturbed by a knock on the door, one that sounded hurried and tired. Despite her reservations, she decided to open it, only to find a note by the door and a beautiful rose.

"The rose is thorny. I pricked myself twice. Dinner will be at 7. I hope you like Chinese takeaway. SH."

Irene raised her eyebrows, picking the rose carefully. It was not groomed, still in its natural state complete with tangling leaves, sharp thorns and bushed up roots, but beautiful nonetheless. She smiled. Sherlock Holmes was never conventional.

Still, she wondered what this was about. Surely he wasn’t expecting her to be his Valentine? 

Closing the door behind her, she sighed.

No more. No more. No more.

After what happened in Karachi, she knew that he would be waking up with the other side of the bed cold and abandoned. Irene figured that was the end of them, fleeing into the night to shake off the fantasy. They shared an intimate moment, a moment both familiar and foreign, but never unexplained. It was like despite the physicality of what they did, it still remained a to be a mind-game.

Still, she had to leave. She had to practical. And she knew that of all people, Sherlock Holmes would understand.

When the world thought he submitted to his own death, she knew otherwise. They were connected somehow, no words needed, no explanations required. She knew he was still alive and she was right, the rose she sent him a reminder that she was still around. That she remembers.

And as she stared at the rose in her hand, she can’t help but wonder, does he remember too?

But this silence was best. Those things were in the past and they have to live each other’s lives separately now, their connection stretched to its limit and must be cut off. Irene reminded herself to not be swayed.

This was a temporary setup, just like the one they had before. But the only difference now is that she learned her lesson and sentiment was out of the question.

***

Sherlock check his watch. It read 7:30.

The food on the table was getting cold and there was still no sign of Irene Adler. He stared out the window and saw couples smiling at each other as they passed the street, bouquets and stuffed toys and large chocolate boxes at hand. Why should there be a day to celebrate romantic love, Sherlock wondered. It is nothing but a chemical reaction, a defect, a disadvantage.

But John and Mary were living proof that it isn’t.

What was he thinking, anyway? Why was he thinking this way? Why? Why? Why?

"You know why, little brother. But as usual, you’re a coward to admit it." Mycroft’s voice spat at him.

Stomping his way to Irene’s room once and for all, he rapped the door until it opened. Irene had her coat on and as Sherlock looked past her, he saw her filling up her luggage. Sherlock pursed his lips.

"I—erm—I thought I told you to go down by 7 o’clock." Sherlock said, almost stiffly.

Irene merely looked at him. “I know.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “It’s already 7:30.”

"I know." Irene said again.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. “Then why are you leaving?”

At last, Irene met his gaze, her expression unreadable. “I’m a woman on the run, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure you know that.”

Sherlock felt anger fill up his nerves, his hands now clenched into fists. He could feel the heat coming from her from their proximity, her breathing almost loud enough for him to hear. His heart was maniacal in his chest, his temple throbbing like he was clanged by cymbals and he realised it wasn’t anger—it was longing. He had lost her to logic, to time and to circumstance. All this time, may it be denial or not, he wanted to know where she was and what she was doing. He wanted to know if she was still alive, if the possibility of crossing paths again with The Woman was even close to coming true.

Before he could even stop himself, he said one word—one simple word—that made Irene’s eyes widen.

"Stay…" Sherlock breathed, his eyes closed tightly.

"I don’t understand…" Irene replied, taking a step back.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, gritting his teeth impatiently. “Well, try to.”

"You know I can’t." Irene simply replied, averting her eyes from the detective. She was about to turn away when Sherlock caught her hand.

"Stay…" he repeated. "Stay here… with me."

Irene tried to shake off Sherlock’s hand but he didn’t let go. “Thinking of you is driving me insane. I had never been this conflicted, this troubled, this… lost.” he confessed as he stepped closer to Irene. “I tried to delete away everything but I can’t.”

"Can’t or won’t?" Irene replied, her voice barely a whisper.

"You know exactly which one." Sherlock replied.

"What about sentiment? Love being a disadvantage? Was it all…" Irene started, but whatever she was about to say next was drowned away by Sherlock’s lips crushing hers. All the memories from Karachi flowed in, the feel of fingers trailing skin, the sound of repressed feeling echoing the room.

After passion swept them both into a feeling that was lost and found, the lay next to one another, Irene’s head on Sherlock’s chest, each of their hearts pumping heavily that it was loud enough to be heard. Sherlock ran his fingers on Irene’s hair and she looked up at him.

"What’re you thinking?" Irene asked, her lips meeting his chin.

"You." Sherlock simply replied, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"I won’t go anywhere." Irene breathed. At that, she felt Sherlock scoff. "What?" she asked.

"You’ll stay?" he asked skeptically.

"Well, it seems like no matter where I am and how hard I try to stay away, I always find my way back to you." Irene replied, smiling.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed her. He bit his tongue, trying so hard to keep his expression less filled with worry. Remembering the feeling he had when he woke up that day in Karachi without Irene next to him, he felt bile rise up his throat. It was the first time in his life when he felt overly betrayed, but lost at its cause. He held Irene protectively, his eyes on her until she fell asleep curled up next to him.

He turned and saw the rose he had given her was in view, in all its blooms and thorns and Sherlock found himself smiling. Here in his arms is his own rose, beauty and brains with flaws and complications in between. Something as brilliant and as broken as him, but they were two-of-a-kind nonetheless.

At that he realised that Valentines wasn’t so bad after all.


End file.
